My Give-a-fuck

Six months ago, if you had asked me how excited I was about The Big Move, I could not have vocalized an answer. Just nod and smile in overwhelming exhilaration.

Ask me that today, or maybe tomorrow, and I might shrug my shoulders. Meh.

And that makes me so very, very angry.

Hustle and bustle saturate my work environment. The shelves are nearly bare and overfilled boxes abound. In two weeks, and at the very most by this time next month, we (my co-hortsworkers and I) will be livin' it up in the new digs, with literally thousands of brand new, spine unbroken, possibly shiny, fresh-from-the-publisher books around every corner, and enough space so that I never have to see, hear or smell the Train Wreck.

Eric is practically drooling at the thought of this place and that guy doesn't get excited about anything. Okay, anything of remote importance.

Gregk, were he not so mired with the actually moving mudanities, would be shivering he tight little ass off in anticipation.

Bill can't wait, neither can Crystal, or Whitney.

But try as I might, I can't give a shit. I've dug deep, too. I really worked at it. But since all this crap hit the fan, I've been too busy trying to pry the eight inch serrated blade out of my spine to care about much else.

There are work place politics, and then there's my job. See, when they can't fire you, they have to get very creative in how they make you leave. And by creative I mean dirty, underhanded, two-faced, backstabbing techniques and slight of hand. And just the slightest little thing, sometimes one may not even know what one did, can set off a chain reaction that would make Mount St. Helens look like a fucking sneeze.

See, I don't know how this got started. Okay, I do know. But it's not really important anymore. It's happened. It's over.

And I just don't give a fuck.

sigh.